


Like Marbles on Glass

by ShastaFirecracker



Series: Small Violences [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Season/Series 09, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8779174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShastaFirecracker/pseuds/ShastaFirecracker
Summary: Another hunt done, another motel. Fallen, human Castiel comes to Dean's room in the night, barely moving, barely breathing, not daring to break the silence, not sure if he dares to touch.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to break some writer's block with good old Destiel and some prompts from the [100 kink challenge](http://phandom-doodles.tumblr.com/post/86601537822/100-kinks-nsfw). (This one started from 85, 'wake up in the middle of the night, have sex, go back to sleep'.) The timeline placement here is hazy, but I usually write human!Cas as early-season-9, subtracting Gadreel from the equation in whatever way you prefer. Tonally I was going for a little bit 'how End!verse might start forming post-Fall if that potential fate wasn't eradicated but merely delayed'.
> 
> I'm leaving the dubcon tag on this even though it is very, very mild, probably not so much dubcon as just emotionally constipated (something our boys specialize in). The somnophilia tag probably also doesn't fully qualify. But since I usually write sickening fluff, I'd rather err on the safe side.

\--- 

_does it trouble your mind the way you trouble mine_

 

The flavor of the week is a rogue angel sitting in on the dreams of priests, clergy, any sort of religious authority, the light of their grace shrouded behind a fake confessional, listening in silence to whispered sins. The angel plays judge and executioner, plants seeds of desperate guilt in their minds, and they kill themselves. To this angel, everything is a sin.

It's nothing Dean and Sam haven't heard before – Heaven has warped so many of these poor repressed godlings in such a specific way that their breakdowns frequently take the same form. Every slight needs to be corrected, every misstep punished, every question silenced. So many angels just don't know any better. They Fall, they get embroiled in messy humanity, their precisely conditioned minds break. Sam still has some capacity to feel sorry for them, and of course Castiel's heart bleeds for them, but Dean is past caring about any except a bare few. There are other evils in the world, and only so much time.

The angel goes without much of a fight. Godhood wasn't in their genes. Castiel stays behind in the small local churchyard to finish burying the vessel's body after Sam and Dean dig the grave. Dean thinks Cas also means to leave some sort of notice to the reverend that his bad dreams should stop now, and that if he still feels suicidal, he should call a hotline or see a doctor. Castiel is starting to become sensitive to these things.

Cas has been human for a little over a year, hunting with the brothers for half that time, developing his own habits and tastes, eating perhaps not enough but no one has told him that he's thinner now, no one has asked him if he's okay. He doesn't always travel with the Winchesters, but he does often enough. He sleeps in the back seat. He never snores.

He's never said whether he has dreams. Dean is sure he does.

When they stay at motels they get two rooms, but there isn't a fixed sleeping arrangement they always fall back on. Sam likes taking the same room as Cas because Cas doesn't snore. Dean pretends to be offended, but his feelings are so much more difficult than that. Being in a motel room alone with Cas always makes him think about that unfulfilled moment of confession, _I'm afraid I might kill myself_ , his face as serene and open as Dean has ever seen it, not asking for pity but almost – almost more like Cas was asking Dean if it might be a good idea.

_I think about killing myself. Do you want to stop me? Should I even want you to stop me?_

There have been times when Dean could have asked the same things, and had just as few answers.

Tonight the choice is up to Cas. Dean is in one room, Sam the other. They needed space after the kill. They needed silence. Dean doesn't expect to know Cas's choice until he wakes up and the other bed either contains a silent lump with a stuck-up black tuft on top, or flat silent sheets still stiff with detergent.

Dean spends his evening at the motel table, whiskey double to one side, the materials to clean his weapons spread out in a careful display. He disassembles and reassembles in meditative silence. Castiel delivered the killing wound, but angel blades never need cleaning. Dean's gun does. He's down two of their precious rounds cast from the metal of a melted angel blade – thanks for the tip, Crowley.  
He clicks the last piece into well-oiled place, downs another shot, climbs onto the bed and falls into an uneasy doze.

Here is the confessional. A dream he's had before, unrelated to this case but brought up by it: the confessional is an easy symbol for his shithole of a brain to dredge up and throw at him, damning with its obviousness. Even in sleep he feels resignation that he can't dream up something more original to hurt himself with. He steps inside and sits. It feels like sleeping in here, too, drowsy-warm. Something buzzes faintly around him, a fly or bee. He closes his eyes in the dream. He doesn't know if he's on the priest's or penitent's side of the box.

This is almost peaceful for a confessional dream. Dean's mind eases and it begins to slip away; the sense that his eyes are closed in a booth dissipates and now he's just in dark, because he's asleep, and dark is where he should be. Full unconsciousness carries him through the dark sea of time for a while, but a faint unease remains – the buzzing, now a tickle.

Dreaming returns sometime in the form of awareness of solidity underneath him. He's lying down, of course he is, he's in bed, but he's on a beach lying down, face half in the warm sand. His hand is lying on the warm sand by his face. He's asleep in the dream. He twists his fingers into the sand and the texture feels so detailed and precise. Something tickles at his neck, the fly landing there. His mind sends the order to his hand to swat it, but nothing happens. He's too thick with drowse.

The tickle spreads and it's on his back now, and on the swell of his ass, and then the backs of his thighs. It's the tide going out, his dream-mind decides. Warm water receding. A breath of cool air skims his lower back and he shivers.

The motion translates into his real muscles and he trips the easy lever into lucid dreaming. The abstract impression of a beach remains with him but he knows his name and opens his eyes. Sand doesn't get in them. There is no sand. The beach is soft and black because it's just his face pressed into a pillow, slanted to the side so he can breathe. The tickle that touches his leg, just his left leg now, it's not water. It's air, moving. It's something so, so close to touching him, but not quite. The unreal pressure of body heat, shimmering within an inch of skin.

The frisson of fear that seeps along Dean's spine is almost unbearably pleasant. He ought to snatch up the knife under his pillow, lightning quick, and slip the blade into the neck of whatever entity isn't touching him. Even if he's only imagining this, even if it isn't real, he'll feel better to know he went for the kill. That he had the instinct of self-preservation, that he acted on it without hesitation. That he values his life above – whatever's happening.

He doesn't move. Still more than half drowsing, he makes the choice not to move. Maybe he has a reason not to move. There's _something..._

Then a sound. Not a word, hardly a voice, but the breath itself is familiar. A hitch of human lungs. The impression of a voice behind it. The impression of effort, of holding onto more sounds with a vice grip. Shallow breaths, now that Dean knows to listen for them, long thin exhales focused on silence.

He closes his eyes against the dark of the pillow. He never saw anything but black anyway. He doesn't think his breathing has changed, not noticably. He stays still intentionally. He regulates his breaths.

This goes on. The heat-wall pressure of skin so, so close to his own drifts down along the back of his leg, then up again. Then one inhale, no deeper than any other, raises the height of his chest no higher than any other, and his flesh touches fingers. A hand finally close enough to risk contact. Dean's skin prickles involuntarily but he exhales normally.

The next exhale from above him sounds like grief.

Dean isn't sure what gives him the impression. He watches the familiar face behind his eyelids, trying to piece together an expression. He can't quite pin it down. Loss or longing, desperation, arousal, sadness, he can't really tell.

Castiel's fingers lift from the skin of his side. Dean is wearing only the shorts he sleeps in. Dean tracks his movements by the heat of his palm. It drifts over his shoulderblade, then towards the center of his back. Then lower, to the small.

Castiel's fingers touch the small of his back, a little to the left. They coast over the curvature of Dean's eating habits, the softness of the love handles that Dean is usually self-conscious about. They move down, catch against the elastic band of the utilitarian black shorts.

The fingers stop there for a long minute. Dean is awake now, fully awake, but he allows the dreamlike unreality of the moment wash over him like the warm surf of his imagination. Castiel's fingers move again, and now they are touching Dean's ass. The fingers stop, rest. Palm joins them. Wide warm spot, soaking through the cotton.

Dean's spine threatens to liquify. His mind threatens to rebel. Wakefulness overtakes uncertainty. His inhale comes a little quicker, against his will. He sees himself, very clearly, doing a lot of different things at once: jerking suddenly, as if waking, and letting Cas jump back and have time to collect himself. Acting groggy, rolling away from the touch, lying still again. Making a loud sound, as if dreaming, to startle Cas away.

Rolling over and looking Castiel in the eye. The knowing expression he could give that would break them apart forever. Rolling over with the knife. Castiel's human flesh parting under it.

Rolling over, looking Cas in the eyes. Not moving. A different expression altogether.

His heart thuds sickly against his ribs. He's lost track of his breathing. He wonders what Castiel knows about him, in this moment.

He remains still, but takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Calming. The hand on his ass freezes, lifts away. The near-silent breathing above Dean changes quality. The differences are infinitesimal, but the changes have happened. They both know it. Silence and utter stillness.

Of all the things Dean could do in the next minute, he does the one he doesn't think either of them expects. He stays where he is. He rolls his shoulders faintly backward, knowing the blades are sliding liquid under his sleep-soft skin. He squirms his hips, only the tiniest movement but the rustle of sheets is loud. Lets one leg slip to the side a little, widening the gap between them. Then he lies still again.

The lack of movment after that goes on for so long that Dean thinks, _fuck. He does still think I'm asleep._ He lies there, wondering. The location of Castiel's breath doesn't move.

Then there's a sudden shift in the weight distribution over the mattress, and the breathing moves away. Cas has been leaning or kneeling on the mattress. That he'd managed to do even that much without waking Dean up is fairly miraculous. Dean lies there, feeling cold. He wants to reach down and pull up the covers he must have kicked off hours ago, to cover his nakedness. But Cas has gone away, and Dean will never acknowledge this moment, meaning he cannot move.

The bathroom door clicks quietly. Nothing about the quality of light changes behind Dean's eyelids, meaning Cas hasn't turned on a light. Cas rustles, not trying to hide in silence anymore. Dean can't quite picture what he's doing – packing or unpacking, getting a towel maybe, going into the bathroom. He's been gravedigging. He may need to wash.

Undressing. The obvious, which Dean tries and fails to avoid. Cas is taking off the blue cotton button-down he wore today. He's slipping his jeans off his legs. He's peeling off each sock and -

And nothing, for a long minute. Maybe he was pulling back the sheets on his bed. Maybe he got in bed. Dean's heart hammers and he wants to turn his face the few inches that would allow him to check and see. He doesn't. He leaves his face where it is.

The fact that both of Castiel's hands touch him then nearly startles him out of his skin. He jerks under the touch, doesn't try to control it, and his exhale into the pillow is too much like a gasp. The hands on his back, one on a shoulderblade and the other on the small, twitch momentarily.

Castiel knows he's awake. Dean swallows hard, stomach in his throat. Cas is doing it anyway, whatever he's doing, and Dean is going to let him do whatever he wants, and they both know it.

This is insane.

The mattress dips sharply to the side and evens out and then different skin is touching Dean's side lightly, and Cas's hands move on his back. Now his fingers are oriented upward, palms lower down, thumbs towards each other in the center of Dean's back, rubbing divots into his skin. That pressure-wall of too-close heat returns, but enormous. A whole body, Dean thinks, not hovering fingers. Castiel's human chest, human breath, stubbled neck, swept hair, the fingernails he bites.

Warm dry lips touch Dean's shoulder. Castiel gives a shuddering exhale, breathes in again, and moves his mouth. It's a kiss, unmistakably. Dean swallows hard, fights against opening his eyes. He either wants to pretend this isn't happening, or he doesn't want it to stop happening. No, that's not right. He wants it – he wants it to be happening to someone better than him, a him who deserves this.

Maybe in some universe there's a version of him who deserves the fact that a fallen angel is in love with him. In some universe, maybe he hasn't already known it for years. Maybe he has the excuse of ignorance. Or maybe in some universe, he had the spine to act on it sooner. To confront it in some real way, not by lying still in a dark motel room and letting Castiel kiss his shoulders and the back of his neck and breathe in against the hair on the back of his head, unmoving, unspeaking. When Cas's head is very close to Dean's own, he can smell the waft of liquor on Cas's breath. He's been drinking, but maybe he isn't drunk. They're not the same, Dean tells himself. Cas isn't drunk.

Castiel moves down, hands trailing to Dean's sides, and when his lips press against the bottom of Dean's shoulderblade, there's dampness on them. He could have licked his lips. It could be a tear that ran down the side of his nose. Dean doesn't want to think about it. Cas's mouth moves on, worshipping Dean's back, thumbs finally touching the elastic band at the top of his shorts.

And Castiel stops again. Dean wonders if it's too much. He wonders what's going to happen. He wants to find out, sick as it makes him feel.

He shifts his hips so slightly, and pushes against one knee, so Cas has a little more access to his waist.

After a long moment of broken breathing, Castiel's thumbs press onward. Under the elastic. Other fingers join and he's pulling Dean's underwear down. Dean's breathing is too heavy now, a little disbelieving, sickened by himself that he's going along with this in this fucked-up way, that he isn't rolling over – _just roll over!,_ his mind yells at him, say _something_ – that he'll let Cas go on feeling whatever he's feeling, alone, for more than another second.

Dean isn't sure this could have happened any other way. His sinuses burn and his eyes tickle as Castiel's mouth touches the top of the swell of his ass. He can only keep being here in this moment if he lets it happen without his participation. The participation of more than one of the two of them would bring this to a screeching halt. _Talking_ about it...

Dean takes a shuddering inhale, calming himself. The action of pulling down his shorts (which are now around his lower calves) has shifted the position of his penis, and he can no longer ignore the intensely obvious implication of what is happening, which is that Castiel wants him. Something sexual is about to happen, if it doesn't already count as having been happening, and Dean can't wrap his mind around what it's going to be. What he wants it to be. He's trembling down to the fine muscles in his hands with how much he wants Cas to do something, but – it's terrifying, letting Cas have this power over him. He's scared of either Cas or his own cowardice. Both.

Blood has already rushed south, just from the intense physicality of what Cas has been doing. The touches on Dean's skin haven't even been sexual, haven't been trying to titillate. Just hands. Just flesh against flesh, different heartbeats separated by a little skin. Even with access, Cas hasn't moved lower over Dean's body, is just mouthing lightly at the dip of Dean's back, though his hands have moved down to the sides of Dean's hips.

Dean parts his lips to take in a deeper breath through his mouth. He knows Cas can hear the change. He gives a shaky exhale and slips his leg into a more comfortable sideways position, knee further up, shifting Cas's fingertips in the folding of skin at the side of his waist. His hips are levered up by no more than an inch like this.

After a little hesitation, Cas rustles back along the mattress by another foot or so. His hands are still wide and hot at the curvature of Dean's waist. His kisses finally move down, lips brushing over the top of Dean's ass, to the juncture of thigh, where he kisses light, then firm, then gathers a fold of skin between his teeth.

Dean makes a sound. In any other circumstances he doesn't think it would have been audible, but they're so quiet, and the room is so quiet. As tiny as it is, it's almost enough to break the spell. Then Cas bears his teeth down in the lightest echo of a bite, lets go almost at once, and kisses the spot. Tongue laps briefly; teeth again, a nip, and Dean shudders. His dick swells, shifting against the sheets.

What does Cas want? Dean is almost in a panic now. He isn't sure if he can take this for as long as it has the potential to go on. There are things Dean would say no to. There are things Dean will _have_ to say no to. There are things – frankly, everything – that Cas simply doesn't know how to _do._ He wants a second to think about this when he isn't aroused, except that given any distance from this moment, he isn't sure he'll ever want to think about it again.

The hand on the left side of his hip slips further around. Towards the front. Tugs a little, raising Dean's hip, slipping under.

Dean almost snaps his legs closed and rolls away from it. He must tense so abruptly that Castiel stops, and his mouth stops what it's doing and vanishes from Dean's ass, and then there's a little shuffling and dipping on the mattress again, and Cas's hand vanishes from under Dean's hip.

That's it? Dean struggles to get a full breath. The mattress shifts distinctly to one side. The pressure-wall of Castiel's body heat lifts away from Dean's back. Dean is entirely hard now, and confused as fuck about it, but as soon as it stops he realizes how much he doesn't want it to.

“I'm sorry,” Castiel breathes into the dark.

Dean swallows, licks his lips.

After a moment of silence, the mattress bounces up from lost weight. Cas is gone.

“Wait,” Dean says, hoarse, muffled into the pillow. There's only been time for one footfall, maybe two. “Wait.”

No footsteps.

“It's okay,” Dean whispers. It's all he can manage.

“Not...” Castiel's voice is still close. “Not if it's only me,” he finishes after a moment.

Dean steels every nerve in his body. He squeezes his eyes closed against the pillow, gathering his fists around sheets, pulling his arms into himself. “It's not,” he says, above a whisper.

The silence returns. It's excruciating.

“This isn't... how...” Cas's voice is weak.

Dean licks his lips. “Come back,” he whispers. And he steels himself, and turns his head, and opens his eyes.

It takes a moment to adjust to the dark, but there is some light through the windows from the streetlights outside. The motel room is a blurry watercolor of shades of charcoal. From the source of his voice, Dean knows where to look for Castiel. He comes into focus slowly, standing between the two double beds, one hand holding the other forearm across his stomach, fidgety, lost. He's wearing plain white boxers. Boy Scout. Boy next door. Innocent in a lot of ways.

Soaked in blood in other ways. Drowning in unnamable sin. Like Dean. Maybe he even deserves some of it, the same way Dean deserves some of his. But not all of it. Neither of them deserve all of their guilts.

Details focus enough that Dean can tell Cas's fidgety hands are somewhat hiding the bulge in his boxers. Interest is still sparking under Dean's fingertips and low in his gut. “Come back,” he repeats, looking at Cas.

It's the eye contact that draws Cas back, Dean thinks. A certain level of acknowledgment that can never be taken back. This is it. Everything's finally over. Everything's finally starting.

Dean doesn't roll over. Cas leans over him again, hesitant, and then dips his head to Dean's shoulder, and reaches his hand across Dean's back to prop himself against the bed, and then he slides his knee back up and into place. Cas brushes his free hand over the back of Dean's head, ruffling his hair, and kisses the nape of his neck. Dean shivers, fists clenching around sheets.

“What should I...” Cas murmurs against the back of Dean's neck, rubbing Dean's arm with his free hand.

“Whatever you were going to,” Dean mumbles into the pillow.

“I... don't know. I hadn't thought.”

Dean closes his eyes briefly. A tiny crackle of exasperation breaks through the fraught emotions he's been buried under since he woke up, and that little shift is enough to lighten the burden on him. He takes a deep breath. “Then think,” he says, voice low.

Castiel's breath shudders out. The bed shifts again, bounces. Weight and heat surge across Dean's back. Cas has straddled his legs, hands on Dean's back again. “I do think,” Cas whispers. His hips bump closer to Dean's, and cotton touches Dean's bare ass, then something else underneath it. “About this.”

Dean licks his lips; they're getting so dry. “Yeah,” he says. Not a question. If they're crossing this line now, they might as well get as far as they can into the wilderness before nightfall.

Cas rubs his hips over Dean's body, erection between Dean's cheeks, and Dean lets out a shaky breath. This is it, then. They're seeing this through. He finally wants to move, he wants to touch himself. He isn't sure he really wants to watch Cas – not yet.

He releases his grip on the sheets and spreads his fingers out, shifting his arms in and pushing. Cas sucks in a breath because Dean presses up hard against him. Cas moves backwards, letting Dean rise. Dean settles onto his knees, torso still lying forward, one arm braced under a pillow, forehead and eyes pressed into the soft blindness. He lets his weight settle onto the one arm. The other he reaches slightly behind himself, open, offering.

After a moment, Castiel takes his hand. Dean draws it around his side, sliding skin on skin, and Cas shifts his whole body closer, until his hips bump Dean's ass again and then he leans over Dean's back, flush, arm around Dean's middle.

“Come on,” Dean says, a little muffled by the pillow. “Easy one this time.”

He doesn't entirely register the words this _time until_ they're out. Cas tenses across his back, then kisses the nape of his neck again. Dean's hand is still with Castiel's. He guides it.

When Cas's long fingers settle around his cock, Dean lets go, and then it's just Cas's hand on him, starting to stroke too hesitant and too loose, and Dean's organs all leap, buoyant and confused, and his throat tastes sour, and he rocks into the grasp, which slides his body against Castiel's erection, and Cas sucks in a short breath and bites lightly at the back of Dean's neck.

“Like it's yourself,” Dean mutters, taking Cas's hand on his cock again and adjusting it. “Have you-”

“Yes,” Cas grunts, rubbing his hips in earnest. His boxers are still between his skin and Dean's. He tightens his grip around Dean's length, and the change is immediate. Oh, Castiel has had practice. Over a year, Dean thinks, while his body lights up and his knees melt, of being human and celibate, as far as Dean knows – of being human and overwhelmed with new urges and chemicals and thoughts, thoughts of wanting to fuck Dean Winchester, fantasies -

Dean gasps into the pillow, rocking with Cas, an urgency flooding his system that has been absent from this whole surreal experience until now. He's thirsty for air, gulping breaths while Cas – while _Castiel_ jerks him off, this is angel of the heavenly host Castiel, warrior of God, older than sin, once with all the power of the universe at his fingertips, made of light and thunderstorms _Castiel_ -

Dean chokes out a cry, or Cas wrings it out of him, and Dean is close, close, very close. This is both surreal and too real. He jams his eyes into the dark of the pillow, not thinking, not thinking, just feeling.

The sensations boil over. His limbs light up, nerves singing, and orgasm spills through him with an intensity of rolling heat that he isn't used to. _Just a fucking handjob,_ he thinks incredulously, cursing into the pillow as he comes. He fumbles at Cas's hand to stop it, ease it off of oversensitive skin. He holds Cas's hand to his stomach instead, while Cas ruts and breathes sharply against Dean's back, fingers curling into a fist under Dean's hand. When he stills, Dean is absently nodding against the pillow, unable to vocalize the encouragement. A spot of warmth touches Dean's back, warm damp cotton.

Castiel's hand flattens against Dean's stomach again, holding on as if for dear life. He gasps unsteady breaths against Dean's shoulder. His hair tickles Dean's neck. Dean abruptly remembers the dream, the fly buzzing around. The tickle, unease.

Dean's stomach squirms. Everything between him and Cas – this just ended it. It's going to be different forever now. His throat thickens with something like grief. He clamps his teeth onto the inside of his cheek and scowls into the pillow.

Different. Maybe better, this new thing. Almost certainly better. Almost.

It takes a minute for both of their breathing to slow down to a normal rate. The spot against Dean's back grows cold, then disappears entirely as Castiel shifts backwards, loosening his arm from around Dean's waist. Dean lets him go, releasing tension in his muscles, easing his knees into better positions. One twinges with pain. The leg that got broken by Leviathan. It's always complaining.

Dean lets go of the pillow slowly. He pushes up on his hands, elbows a little weak, then sits up straight, butt on his heels. He opens his eyes. Cas is gone. The bathroom door is open, lights still off. Dean sees a flicker of dark gray movement in the tiny sliver of mirror he can glimpse from here.

Dean licks his lips. He starts forming Castiel's name in his throat, but it seizes up before it reaches his mouth.

Cas doesn't emerge for one minute. Two. Dean has to move, his legs are going to sleep, so he twists around to sit up, finds his underwear around one ankle. He pulls them on, hesitates, then leans over the bed to his duffle and picks up the black t-shirt he'd thrown there before going to sleep. He slips it over his head.

Dean sits at the edge of the mattress for a while, wondering what he's supposed to do. The version of him that deserves Castiel would go to him, say something. That version of him would know what to say.

But when Cas hasn't come out of the dark bathroom for over five minutes, Dean can only lie back on his bed, away from the wet spot. Eventually he pulls the blanket up over himself. He waits. Waits.

The door to the bathroom closes abruptly. Light erupts into the crack under the door, and the white noise of the shower running.

Even though Dean's sure he's never felt so awake in his life, after another five minutes of the lulling sound of running water, the easy warmth of the bed, the liquidity of his limbs... he starts losing his grip. He meant to wait, but it isn't happening. He wonders about Cas. _“This isn't how...”_ No, it isn't how Dean thought, either. He rubs one shin with the opposite foot, closes his eyes. The shower runs, but Dean can't hear whether Cas is moving under the spray. Stomach full of lead, he rolls over, facing the motel room door, away from the bathroom.

 

He wakes hours later. No more dreams that he can remember. Sunlight is spilling through a stray crack in the blackout curtain, painting a white stripe across the blanket still covering his feet. He's kicked the covers down again.

He wishes he couldn't remember last night with perfect clarity. He wishes it felt like a dream, something so impossible, so unlikely. Except that it never was impossible or unlikely. It just hadn't happened yet. And now it has.

Dread in his gut, he tenses and rolls over.

The opposite bed is neat and made. Stiff with detergent.

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. He breathes in. Lets it out through his mouth.

Then he gets up to pack his stuff. There's work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pondering some continuation of this, or at least trying to fill some more prompts on the 100 kink challenge. Stay tuned.


End file.
